


Living Nightmare

by NorthwesternInsanity



Category: Ratt
Genre: Drama, Dreams and Nightmares, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fighting, Gen, Heavy Angst, Illness, Nightmare comes true, warning dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-05-01 11:17:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14519361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthwesternInsanity/pseuds/NorthwesternInsanity
Summary: Nightmares are just dreams. Frightening figments of imagination. Not anything real, with the exception of those flashing back to past traumatic experiences. ...But for a nightmare not of such a type that repeats itself exactly more than once and many times, could it actually be something more than a dream? Could it be real? ...Could it be a warning of something to come? Warren DeMartini fears his own nightmare is -and that means not only bad things for himself and Ratt, but even worse for one of his bandmates..





	Living Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> There's nothing more painful and scary than when a repetitive, vivid nightmare comes true. *Nothing*

It started out as just a nightmare. Just one. But one that could wreak pure havoc. 

It was the type of nightmare that punched the heart and evoked feelings not every person was aware they had in them to feel. The type that pulled its victim out of sleep before the conclusion of the horror. The type that made its victim tremble all over. The type that could reduce even the strongest person to tears as a child would be at a much more mild terror. The type that could make the most rational person spend hours convincing himself that it wasn't real.

Warren DeMartini, being neither the strongest, nor the most rational person in the world, was helpless to hold up to it -and already in pieces when his alarm clock pulled him from the dream state. He only jolted back together for a second, caught off guard by the beeping of the alarm. As soon as he turned it off, he reached his hands up to rub the sleep out of his eyes, only to land his fingers in fresh tear trails that still had droplets at the end pulling them downward. 

The scene Warren had been trapped in when the alarm went off flashed through his mind at this trigger. Standing outside the back of the studio building in the parking lot, crying like a child without the slightest care in the world who saw him and what they thought of it. Things were bad enough that it seemed it couldn't possibly get worse.

Almost immediately, to his disgust, Warren felt more tears welling up in his eyes before he could stop them. He folded over himself, sitting in a tripod at first, then supporting himself entirely on one arm while covering his eyes with the other. Aside from being silent, biting back the sobs until the tears came without them, he was exactly as he had been in the dream state before waking up.

It was as if a musical dystopia had occurred.

Though some of the details toward the beginning had faded, everything had been very vivid leading up to the end as things got worse and more disturbing to Warren.

All he knew from the beginning was that some new force had been placed in charge of the Southern California area, and as they got settled, they made it clear they were against the music scene and wanted to end it. The places Warren remembered getting things started with his bandmates were being decimated. The first thing he'd seen was a lot of venues closing. When they started forcing the reduction of some of the first venues Warren remembered himself -and Stephen and Robbin before he was even with them -feeling good about playing as they were starting out -places like The Rainbow and The Whisky getting forced to shut down for the night early. That was practically a sin in itself.

Then when Ratt's tour management team was forced to cancel a tour and places were canceling out, things got scary. Because they'd originated in the Sunset Strip, they were getting forced away from places even outside of California. And as that happened, tensions began settling in and adversely affecting them all. 

Juan was in rare form -frantic, but trying to act as though he felt he had some control of the situation, probably out of denial. Bobby completely ignored everything, joking the way everyone else was acting. And that had probably been out of denial too. Stephen was blatantly in denial of it -telling everyone to shut up with their fussing because it didn't do anything -even if he was fussing just as much, and then running away. He was also being the rebel when he was present, and trying to encourage them with Juan to perform wherever they could -even if that meant hauling equipment on their own out onto the streets and doing it there. Which of course worked for some time, until the police were chasing them off whenever they did.

It was scary to see that in the dream for Warren, but it wasn't until the end where things really got bad -already being confined to studio recording performances only. Robbin hadn't been coping well at all through it -the destruction of the musical scene seemed to be slowly killing him, and he was beginning to get really sick. Warren couldn't tell what he was sick with, but he was starting to become weak, hurting all over, having more trouble walking and standing for extended periods of time.

All he could really remember about the worst of the end was that he'd woken up to the news report that The Whisky had been imploded overnight and The Rainbow was being torn down. And when he'd gotten to the studio, Bobby was nowhere to be seen, Juan was inside with Stephen and Warren, and there were two men in dark uniforms and glasses that hid their eyes whose Warren didn't know helping them pack up all the equipment into boxes.

_"Juan? What are you guys doing?! Stop!"_ Warren had cried out in the dream.

_"D'ya really think we had a choice in this, Warren?! There's nothing now, okay? Shut the fuck up!"_ That was all Stephen had said, and then he was gone out of sight -no sign of where he'd gone off to. Typical.

_"We can't even do this, Warren -it's over. We don't have a choice; maybe later we can come back from this, but for now, this is all we can do,"_ Juan had said. 

At that moment, one of the men in uniform picked up Warren's guitar -one of his favorite Charvels. The one with the Japanese flag design and the swords. He picked it up, and before Warren could even run over and do anything, he'd dumped a bottle of lighter fluid on it, tossed it aside, and set it on fire.

Warren remembered screaming in that moment, but not hearing himself make any noise. And then there was Robbin. Robbin collapsing to the floor. His legs had completely given out and failed him, he was struggling to breathe and hold his eyes open, he looked near death. But he was shakily stretching his hands out in front of him, slapping his palms onto the floor in front of him, trying to pull himself forward on his stomach, dragging himself toward one of the mystery men, who was now holding one of his Jacksons.

Robbin was a mere two feet away, weakly reaching an arm out to grab the guitar when the man swung the guitar up to smash it on the floor. When he did, Robbin collapsed as the hideous noise echoed through the room. That was also when Warren turned and ran out of the building, breaking down in the parking lot where he was when he woke up from the horror.

Warren was pretty sure -especially now that he was awake and in his senses -that the stuff with music being banned, outlawed, and destroyed wouldn't happen. Even if musicians were helpless to fight that battle, there would be plenty of people out there fighting against it. Even if the style of music changed over time, it was still going to exist in some form or another.

It was everything that had happened around it. That was the scarier part. All of those things had the potential to happen. Those were what he couldn't promise himself that they wouldn't happen. Ratt could still fall apart, and it seemed realistic for most of everyone to react the way they had. Juan definitely seemed like how Warren would expect Juan to react in a crisis. Bobby? Not wanting to take anything like that seriously -that seemed like him. Stephen for sure would be moody as hell, and would probably run away for a few hours whenever he didn't like something. Warren knew for sure that he, personally, would be devastated.

But Robbin. Robbin seemed like he would be the glue that would hold them all together, and keep them all positive. The only way it would be that bad was if Robbin really did get sick with something that could take him down.

And Robbin had been sick in the dream. With what, Warren couldn't tell, but it looked like something slow and terminal. Something that would get worse overtime until it killed Robbin.

Warren shook his head.

_Just because Robbin was sick there doesn't necessarily mean anything here_.

He tried to think of yesterday in the studio. Put images of what was real in his mind -maybe that would work to block everything else out.

It seemed to work, for maybe the better part of ten seconds, and already, images and happenings from the dream world were already starting to creep in and infect it. Trying to push them out made the images come in stronger and worse too. That wasn't going to do the trick.

Instead, Warren decided on another strategy to get the burning images extinguished. He unfolded and slid off the bed, near frantically running into the other room to find his Japanese flag guitar in its stand and perfectly intact as if nothing had ever happened. Because nothing _had_ happened. None of what had happened in the dream was real.

He felt stupid enough, but he had the guitar out of its stand and in his arms before he could stop himself. He needed to feel it against his side and the neck in his hand with the strings pushing into his fingertips; solid, real, and uninjured. There to confirm that nothing had happened.

_It's fine. If that wasn't real, then you know the rest of it wasn't either. It's a dream. It's not real._

Warren attempted to get back on track about his morning routine. He still ended up having to pause and repeat to himself over and over "it's not real" several times. Despite this, he'd thought he'd still been moving fast enough, until approaching the door on his way out, he looked at the clock. _Crap_. He'd needed to be at the studio over half an hour ago at 11:00 o'clock. Usually Warren was the first there, sometimes before the time they'd set to arrive. For him to be late would tell his bandmates that something was up for sure without him saying a word about the haunting scenes.

_Damn it, it's 11:30. I've been up since 9:45. I didn't need to cry and drag my feet through a bunch of nonsense for an hour._

That thought was an understatement, as ideally, Warren would believe he didn't need to cry at all before the day had a chance to even start, but the nightmare had ensured he'd done so before coming to full consciousness, so that was out of his control. He picked up the phone as he internally berated himself, dialing the studio space they had. Maybe it would deflect some of the suspicion if he at least called to say he was running late.

Warren would almost immediately regret that decision. After two rings, the phone picked up, and he heard a familiar nasally drawl at its lowest speaking pitches, and in an unusual fashion for who it belonged to, no emotion at all. Just cold, dark, and scary.

"I'm at the fucking studio before you. _Shame_ on you. You're not here, and since you just called from _your phone_ , it looks like you haven't even left home."

Warren didn't have words to respond with. He just silently held the phone and listened to the silence on the other end of the line.

_Thank you, Stephen. Really, thanks. A lot. I know you don't know what happened and I can't expect you to know either, but I didn't need that this morning. I really didn't._

He heard noise in the background in the other end as somebody took the phone from Stephen.

"Warren?" An unusually high pitched speaking voice for a man. That was Juan, unmistakably so.

"Yeah?" He barely whispered, noticing how raspy and thick his voice sounded.

"It really does say a lot when Stephen gets here only slightly late and it's still almost half an hour before you. You sound a little funny; are you sick? Are you able to come in, or do you need to stay home?"

Oddly enough, Juan's show of concern somehow was making Warren's heart ache more than Stephen's scorning, and as he feared, and also cursed himself for, when he spoke again, his voice trembled slightly.

"No, Juan, I just -I ...Uh, I'll explain later after we get stuff done; it's um -it's little complicated. I'm getting ready -I'm actually ready to leave and just wanted to warn that I was running late. It's -I'm not having a good morning. At all. I'm sorry-"

"Okay, then, I get it. Don't waste any more time going on about it. Just get here as soon as possible, and we can discuss that after everything else is done with. Are you okay?"

Warren had to wonder that question himself. He was physically okay, though he had a dull, throbbing headache. He wasn't confident of his composure, but none of those things really prevented him from being able to play guitar. There was any reason why he thought he _had_ to stay home.

"Yeah, I'm okay. I'll be there soon." Maybe playing some guitar in the studio would help. Further proof of what was real and what wasn't.

Juan hung up without a further word.

Before anything else could destabilize the composure he had, Warren took that moment to make a beeline right out of the house and into the car. The studio wasn't far away. He was there within fifteen minutes; it wasn't too much more of a delay, but for Warren, any delay was significant.

"I guess there's no point in me making an effort to be on time when it means the one who's all about getting here early is going to be late instead," groused Stephen passive-aggressively to Juan as Warren came inside.

"Of all people late, you? I still need you to come over and pinch me, because this whole morning feels like a dream!" exclaimed Bobby while holding the door open.

"You're _not_ dreaming," Warren spoke in a light, raspy voice through a sigh, trying to not get worked up again.

"You alright, Torch?" asked Robbin gently, coming over to the door.

"For the most part, yes. Maybe I'll answer more questions later or maybe I won't, but I feel like I'd better not -I just don't want to talk about it right now -I want to record." Warren swiftly unpacked his guitar and strapped it on before anyone could say anything further. Being ready to go physically was the only way the questions had a chance of stopping.

Warren couldn't have felt any luckier that day that they did stop, until they finished working on what they'd planned to. And despite hoping that Juan would forget, he'd known he'd get asked at the end of the day, because Juan had said it on the phone.

"Before we leave, Warren, I want to know what that was all about. Because if its something that's going to affect whether you can get here on time or not, we still have to work scheduling around it."

"Or we can just make it easy and get to things as we get to them and not fucking worry about it," muttered Stephen, reclining his chair back in two legs. Everyone -even Warren and Robbin -had made bets on whether Stephen would one day do it too far back and fall down, and speculated on just how funny it would be.

Bobby rolled his eyes. "And then you'd _never_ get your ass in here."

"Bobby, we're not talking about that right now," Juan snapped. "Quit digging up trouble aside from where we're dealing with it."

"Alright, you three -we're not worrying about that part right now," said Robbin. He turned to Warren and looked him right in the eyes. "Warren, you were late, and that's not normal, but I'm more concerned about how you looked and sounded when you came in here. You're pretty upset by something. You don't have to give all the details if you don't want to, but I think you need to say something about it, because it's really getting to you."

"This is probably going to sound stupid, I guess... and I don't think it'll affect me being on time in the future. At least I'd hope not. Um, I-" Warren dropped his voice to a near whisper, unsure why, but feeling like he had to. "I just had a really bad nightmare, and I know it was only that, but I can't get it out of my head-"

"Oh lordy, I can already tell that's a piece of work," drawled Stephen, rolling his eyes.

Juan smacked his hand down on the table in Stephen's direction and spat out a shush.

_"Stop."_

"What happened?" asked Robbin.

"I gotta know too!" Bobby leaned in as if he were expecting some exciting piece of news.

"I don't want to dig too far into it, when it was all full of -because it's hard to talk about it," Warren started, trying to control his nervous stutter to a point. "All I guess I'll say is that this place got really screwed up -this part of the state, and a lot of places that had a lot of meaning to us back in the day got destroyed. That's the part I can confirm isn't real, so that's what I can -the rest of it, just -I can't get into that."

"They destroyed The Rainbow or The Whiskey?" asked Bobby. "Times are changing, but for Christ's sake, if they had any sense, they'd leave them standing."

"That's why I can talk about _that_ part," Warren insisted, sighing and looking away, starting to feel his throat tightening up. "But yes, they destroyed both of them. And that's the least difficult part -the rest of the stuff that happened was a whole lot worse, and it could happen."

"Oh, Torch," Robbin murmured, looking so sad in the eyes as he had in the dream whilst becoming weaker. "I already know that drove you crazy, because it'd rip me up. I'd hope it wouldn't, but it probably made you cry in your sleep too -and that upset you more too, I bet."

It was beyond Warren how Robbin could understand what nobody else could.

"Well, I don't know how much I actually cried in my sleep, but I know it started at some point, because when I woke up -it's stupid, but I was, and I couldn't... I know it's fucked up, but it took me -I guess? -probably about an hour to settle down and stay stopped. And by the time I'd stopped and gone through the morning routine, I was already late and I tried to call..." He trailed off, his voice starting to strain as he choked up more.

Juan shot a death glare at Stephen, who had gone completely silent. That was rare in itself. As soon as Stephen saw Juan's glare, he ducked over his lap, his ever-present errant lock of hair flopping forward over his face. Even he knew that the aggressive way he'd answered the phone had done no favors for Warren. Whether he really felt ashamed of himself was questionable, but he was aware of what he'd done for better or worse.

"Some dream if it did that!" whooped Bobby.

"Blotz, please..." Robbin sighed in a warning tone. "Don't start. I'm sorry, Torch. Sounds like you had a shit morning."

"Yeah... I guess it'll blow over on its own -tomorrow for sure. That one just got me good and has a death grip on me today. I don't want to talk about it anymore right now, because I'm afraid it'll -well, I don't want to see those images. And I don't want to cry again either. Which means I'd probably better stop now."

"Understandable," said Juan. "Alright, we have the studio same time tomorrow. Then we break for a week, and we come back in for another week. We're not really behind despite everything -if we are, it's negligible, so I'm not going to worry about this. It's fine."

"So time to go home?" asked Bobby.

"Think so -we're done for today," said Robbin.

Stephen jumped up from his chair and left without a word.

Something about that struck Warren, as it felt that Stephen was running away as he had through the dream. But then again, discussing the nightmare was kind of a conflict in itself, and Stephen tended to run like hell from that anyway if he had a clear escape path. Maybe it was nothing.

That night, Warren slept dreamlessly and woke up feeling fine the next morning. With that, he would have moved on from the previous night's horrors and not given them another thought...

...Except three nights later, the nightmare repeated itself. The exact same horrible scenes leading up to the terrifying end and a tearful waking condition. The night before, Warren had been at a night party with his bandmates -off to the side, but nevertheless there, and he'd overdone it drinking. Rather than provoking a fit of sobbing, when the images flashed through Warren's hungover mind, his stomach lurched and he found himself blindly staggering to the bathroom only to throw up what remained in his stomach. Once that was up, his stomach continued to dry heave as he braced himself up with his arms, holding a shaky death grip on the porcelain rim of the toilet, and attempted to blink his eyes clear of the tears that had blurred them prior to waking up. 

Warren was aware that some people, others in the music industry -some of who he'd even met or knew, who struggled with trauma and nightmares would use alcohol to block them out. He made a mental note to himself not to try it, given it hadn't prevented it last night. And dealing with the flashbacks to the nightmare with a hangover on top of it was hellish. 

_No way am I gonna do this again... Not consciously and willing at least._

The impact seemed a little less of a shock. He chalked that up to having seen it before. But why was he having a nightmare repeat? Was that normal?

Warren shook his head, slowly climbing up from the floor and flushing the toilet before going to rinse his mouth out in the sink.

_Doesn't matter if it's normal or not. It's not real. That's what's important._

This time, with less of a struggle, he accepted it as not real and continued about nursing his hangover and going about the day. Maybe the hangover had put a fog on his worrying about it, but it wasn't worth the pain. Hopefully this would be the last time.

**********

It was the same wakeup that one morning three weeks later. The alarm going off to pull him out of it. The lump in his throat that tried to choke him, the burning in his eyes that made opening them to the light twice as painful, finding that his breathing was a bit shaky, and having to sit there for five minutes before he could get up to get his heart to settle down and his emotions in check before the tears came and rendered him inconsolable for another hour.

"It's not real," Warren whispered allowed to himself, shakily grabbing a pack of cigarettes from the nightstand and sticking one in his mouth before lighting it. He walked across the room, sliding the window open and letting the morning breeze hit his face as he desperately tried to push the images out of his head and untangle the bundle of nerves they'd twisted him into.

_Calm down. It's not real. It's not real. It's not real..._

Ten minutes later, Warren got up from the window and shuffled to the bathroom to get showered and ready for the day. He paused in the doorway, shaking his head and sighing. Oddly enough, he just couldn't shake the nightmare off this morning. It was the same one he'd been having over and over again the past three weeks -nothing different. After what was now thirteen times, he'd gotten pretty used to settling himself down and continuing on like it had never happened once he woke himself up fully.

There was something eerie about it to Warren, not being able to get it out of his head this time. That combined with how many times he'd had it. Thirteen. Maybe it was only superstition, but that number wasn't resting easy with him.

_It means nothing_. Warren climbed in the shower. Unlike most times, he didn't duck out of the way to let the pipe clear, but let the cold blast hit him right in the face and chest. Maybe that'd do it. It did distract him at first. The impact pulled a gasp from his lungs and sent a hard shiver through his spine.

Two minutes later, as he reached for the bottle of shampoo, Warren caught an image in his mind of Robbin reaching up for the guitar and being too weak to get to it.

The tightness in his throat and chest, and throbbing behind his eyes returned almost immediately. This was probably the hardest he'd taken it since the first time.

That was when Warren knew he was going to have a hell of a time hiding it in the studio. He pushed himself to make sure he wasn't lagging, even if it meant pushing it down -he already knew that being late would sell him before he even got in the door.

He made it halfway through the day. Warren actually had just gotten the thought of relief that he'd managed to cover himself when the question finally came.

"You look a bit strung out, Warren. Are you alright?" asked Juan.

Warren blinked, bringing himself back to his senses.

"Oh! Uh, yeah... I-I'm okay," he answered, inwardly cursing his nervous stutter that always gave him away, and dropped his tone to a quiet murmur. "I had that nightmare come back again last night."

"Again? I'm sorry, Torch." Robbin slid his chair closer to Warren's and put his hand on top of his sympathetically.

"Didn't you have one just less than a couple days ago? Same one again as the first? You'd think it was trying to tell you something. Maybe we ought to hear it," challenged Bobby.

"I don't know how to make sense of it really. It just... I don't think it's the case; it's vivid -you know -it just feels so real I have to keep telling myself -trying to convince myself it's not real."

Warren didn't want to elaborate on what had happened in the dream. It was likely to get conflict going. If Bobby and Stephen got into it with each other too far, the whole day would derail. And didn't want to make Robbin feel bad either. He also really didn't want to cry over it again, and describing it vaguely had already started to constrict his throat.

Of course, it would be the case that Stephen would be curious and pry for more information. Not in the most polite of ways either.

"Alright, what's being affected by _'it'?_ " he demanded. "This part you won't tell us about. You don't necessarily have to say all the details -just say what the fuck it's messing with so we have a general idea. Because for you to spend all day trying to snap out of it and it feels that real, it's gotta have to do with something important to you -and if you're hiding it from us, it's gotta involve something important to us too. And whatever it is is driving _you_ nuts -and after this many times now is starting to fucking drive _me_ nuts."

"It's complicated. I don't know how to say it-"

"Is it just a nervous thing where it's small stuff, or are completely detrimental things happening? Really, how bad? Is it that painful or upsetting?" asked Juan.

"Well, if things did happen the way they did between us -in the dream, I'm saying. And it could happen without everything else, I mean -this band..." Warren trailed off, looking downward to his left where Robbin sat next to him, feeling scared of how the others would react, but not knowing a vague way of saying it. "...it wouldn't be good for it or any of us if it were to happen..."

As he looked down, Warren noticed Robbin's arm in the corner of his eye. Since they no longer lived together in cramped conditions when they weren't on tour and he wasn't regularly having to sleep in the same bed with Robbin, he didn't really see or notice things up close of him anymore. Not to this degree.

But focusing in, Warren noticed a trail of marks up Robbin's arms. Not just one trail. Several. They were fainter under the cover of the thin coating of hair on his arms, and some were old and well scarred over so they didn't show too well. But then there were some faintly bruised spots that appeared to have a coating of concealer over them, implying they were much worse. Those looked bigger, newer, and there were more of them going up toward under the sleeve of Robbin's shirt.

_Is that...? Are those-?_ It was suddenly hard for him to focus his vision and he felt his head spin sickeningly.

It was nothing he hadn't seen before. Track marks. The hallmark of heroin. It was no secret by now that it was a problem in some bands -their close friends in Motley Crue were notorious for it, and Warren knew that Robbin had used before with Nikki and in other places none of them were really sure of. He wasn't ever as strung out as Nikki was, but addiction would be hidden for quite a while depending on the person. Warren had to wonder if Stephen hadn't gotten into it at times with how strung out he sometimes seemed.

But what Warren saw in front of him didn't look like an unfortunate but well known vice of half the bands originating on the Sunset Strip. It didn't look like an addiction. What Warren felt it looked like was a future slow, long, painful death in disguise. From the drug itself, or something caused by it, he didn't know, but there was something about it -and Warren began to see the scenes playing through his mind.

"Warren? Are you crying? What the...?"

Warren flinched. He felt like crying more than he had all morning, and was suppressing the urge to, but hadn't realized he'd already started.

_*Am* I crying?_

He felt the wet splash of a tear landing on his left cheek, and the vision in the respective eye cleared slightly. Then there was the wet and tickling sensation of the tear straggling over his sharp cheekbone to fall off. It landed in his lap, and then his vision blurred out entirely as the stinging increased and more tears formed.

"You come here."

The next thing Warren was aware of was Robbin wrapping his broad arms around him and pulling him into a firm hug that was ripping away all of his inhibitions.

"You come here with me. It's okay. Come on now, Torch; don't start crying now. Though I guess I'm a little late saying that, 'cause you're already drowning here."

Warren knew Robbin had made that joking remark to make him laugh, and he couldn't make himself do it even though he wanted to do that far more than he wanted to cry. He closed his eyes for a minute, trying to block out the image and dispel the tears. But when he opened his eyes again, he could see Robbin's upper arm close up. In this rare proximity, he had a better view, and now he could see just how many track marks hidden under gooked-up makeup there were, how some of them looked a couple days old, but just how many looked fresh, and how some were surrounded by redness and irritation that could at any point become infections -maybe already were infections. Infections that could have potentially been deadly. Warren closed his eyes again, not wanting to see it, but the image stayed in his head, reflecting the ones in his dream leading up to the illness and the terrible end.

Before he could even try to force it back, Warren burst into frantic sobbing; quiet and gasping just as it had been when he was outside the building in his nightmare. He wasn't sure if he'd have been able to force it back this time even if he had the chance to try. He'd been resisting it all day, and each time it had been harder. Now, seeing the signs in reality...

"Oh my God," murmured Robbin.

"Well then," remarked Stephen, looking over and fidgeting awkwardly as if he wasn't quite sure what to make of the scene playing out. "Guess that answers your question, Juan."

"Not now, Stephen," warned Juan, not wanting the situation to escalate any further. "Leave it." He went across the room and opened the storage cabinet under the counter and with a little bit of digging, found a box of tissues and set it down on the table. Warren didn't seem to notice.

Warren squeezed his eyes tightly shut in anguish, feeling Robbin's large hand gently rubbing circles on his back and hot, messy tears running down his face in a way he was already bitterly embarrassed about. A few tears were one thing. A meltdown like the one he was having now was entirely another. He internally prayed he wasn't running snot strings -the maximum humiliation -when Robbin reached him a tissue and put it in his hand. Frantically, he accepted it and covered his nose, only slightly relieved to feel that he wasn't.

_And to think that he's the one who's going to be gone, if this is real... -No! Don't think that way. Stop it. Warren Justin DeMartini, get ahold of yourself -it's not real!_

Bobby looked over incredulously. What he said next only added insult to injury for Warren.

"For fuck's sake. As if Stephen weren't enough of a disaster upstairs half the time, and now you too, Warren? Over a dream? A stupid dream?! What the hell is the matter with you?!"

Warren gulped hard in an attempt to stop and a small, nearly inaudible whimper forced its way out of him with the impact of Bobby's exclaimation.

Robbin shot a stern and silent look of disappointment at Bobby that said enough on its own.

"Bobby," warned Robbin in a low, soft tone that had just enough of a dark edge to match his expression. "That's enough."

That still didn't stop everyone else from getting into it.

Juan turned to face Bobby, eyes incredulous, but also furious. He firmly pointed at the door.

_**"OUT!"** _

Stephen was poised to pour fuel on the fire, climbing up from his chair, his lips pressed together into a thin line, eyebrows slanting together threateningly, hand on his hip in an overbearingly sassy position.

"Ya think, Blotz? Really? You're lucky that was Torch you said that to, 'cause I woulda damn well _decked_ you if you said that to my face! I guess you're too scared to do that. And what are you implying by that comparison -are you trying to start a fight with me? I've heard plenty, and you're gonna have to say more than that to get a rise outta me-"

"Stephen, you'd better _not,"_ Robbin continued in his low tone with a sigh as if he'd given up on trying to play the game with Stephen, holding Warren tighter as shivers began to travel through the latter's body.

Bobby snorted. "Seems I already did just that -and I wasn't even talking to you too, so you started that one. Lord knows, you're already screwed up in the head, and it seems to be contagious now that Warren-"

"Enough! You heard Robbin! Both of you," Juan scolded. He pointed at the door again. "Bobby, you can leave. Just leave the room. _Right now!_ If you're only going to start shit up with Stephen and torment Warren when he's already upset, then you don't need to be in here. You think saying that was actually going to help? Think again! _Out!"_

Bobby turned to go through the door. "It is true though," he said clearly before closing it behind him.

"I'm gonna come over there and fuck you up!" Stephen started to head for the door after him, threateningly slamming a clenched fist into his opposing hand, but Juan grabbed him.

"No. _Go back_. Sit down and leave it alone. I'm two inches from sending you to another room too, because that's not helping either!"

Stephen went back and sat down in his chair, leaning back, folding his arms across his chest, and sulking silently.

Juan went to the kitchen area, came back with a glass of water, and set it down on the table. 

"Warren, settle down. At this point you're probably already in for a world of hurt."

Warren was still in Robbin's arms, pulling in intermittent gasps that seized his entire slender frame between clinched teeth. It seemed the tears had somewhat stopped, but his heart was still crying, because it knew he already _was_ in a world of hurt.

"Just settle down," soothed Robbin gently. "I'm so sorry, Warren."

_I'm sorry too, King. If any of this is real, I'm sorry, because I don't know if there's anything I can do now -it's already falling apart,_ Warren thought silently, unable to speak the words aloud.

It was silent for a few minutes. Warren finally pulled away from Robbin, leaning over the table on his elbows. Robbin encouraged Warren to drink some of the water Juan gave him to help him calm down and try to keep him from getting a headache that was nearly inevitable after a crying spell of such magnitude.

"I don't know what's going on that's haunting you so badly. You don't have to say either. If it hurts too much to talk about, then I don't want you to unless you want to. But remember that it's going to be okay -whatever happens, I'm here for you, Torch. I'll make sure it's okay."

Warren bit his lip hard. Part of him wanted Robbin to hold him again, but the other part of him pleaded for Robbin not to, and he resisted the urge to reach out and grab hold of him. As much as the contact was comforting temporarily, it would probably get him started again with the implication. Instead, he grabbed another tissue and hid his eyes so that Robbin wouldn't see the pain of his statement in them.

_Oh, Robbin, if you only knew... And I don't have the heart to say it because I know it'd break yours._

There was uncomfortable silence. Robbin continued to keep a hand on Warren's back as the guitarist composed himself, breathing deeply and steadily as he came back down to earth and sipping from the glass. Juan walked back and forth in a straight path along the side of the room, shortening the length every few turns it seemed. Stephen watched Juan pace, practically hypnotized whilst leaning back in his chair, and that was the moment which he finally tipped it back too far, it scraped back, and Stephen fell down sprawled like a beetle on its back, letting out a raspy squawk of a yelp. When he did, he managed to rattle the table enough so that the glass of water tipped over and spilled out its remaining contents too.

Stephen making the spectacle of himself they'd all been waiting for, and it wasn't even funny anymore.

Juan stopped pacing abruptly, snatching their notepad with studio notes out of harm's way at the last possible second, then tossed it across the room onto the floor out of the way. He inhaled and exhaled huffily, but that didn't do enough for his frustration. 

Then, slamming his arms down by his sides, hands curled tightly into fists, he shouted loudly with disgust, shattering the silence.

"I swear, one of these days two certain people are going to be the death of me. And if not me, then they'll be the death of this band!"

As soon as Juan's ranted statement was out, tears came flooding back to Warren's eyes and he folded over his lap, covering his eyes with his arm.

Stephen flinched, hopped to his feet, and traipsed out of the room.

_This isn't a dream. This is too real._

Robbin rose from his seat and held up a hand, closing his eyes sadly. Juan quieted immediately.

"Juan, come and talk with me outside. We can walk around or something, and you can blow off steam. But not in here." He motioned, heading for the door. 

Juan followed him out, shaking his head miserably and rubbing his temples.

Warren slowly sat back up, and peeped out into the room slowly over his arm. Propping himself up on his hands, tensed and white knuckles pushed against his lips, he sat silently, looking about the room, still in shock and horror.

Stephen emerged from around the doorway looking sheepish and holding a roll of paper towels.

_At least he has the decency to clean up one mess he's made,_ thought Warren to himself, feeling pathetic. _Never mind all the others._

Warren watched silently as Stephen lay paper towels over the puddle of water on the table, then dropped a couple on the floor where some had splashed over the edge. He shifted the ones on the floor around with his foot, picked them up, lifted the water-logged ones off the table, and carried the wad of used paper towels to the trash can.

A residual hiccup jolted Warren's breathing into a light gasp and he sniffled as Stephen came back toward the table to wipe up the remaining water.

Stephen blew out a hard sigh as he ripped another paper towel off the roll and aggressively scrubbed circles against the wood grain of the table.

"Warren, look at me. Right now."

Warren looked up at Stephen, who was fixing him with a critical expression bordering on a glare. It was painful to look at, and he felt as if it were burning through him.

"You need to pipe down and pull your shit together."

"I'm trying, Stephen, I can't explain this-"

Stephen threw the paper towel off to his side, letting it flail to the floor.

"Warren, look. I don't know what kind of fucked up stuff is happening in your dreams. But none of us can do anything to stop them, okay? It sucks; I get it. Of course we want them to stop -it's driving King nuts right now, and it's not cool. But we can't do anything to stop them. It's one thing to be upset, and if it scares you that much then go ahead and be upset -I don't care if you do! But fucking stop it with this stupid paranoid and panicking crap!"

"I know that, and I am trying. It's really vivid, and I'm trying -I just can't get it -and it's driving me crazy-"

"Yeah, _ya think?_ Yes it _is_ driving you crazy; you're making yourself sick with this shit, and it's tying us all back. There's nothing we can do. It's in your head, and you're the only one who can sort out your thoughts. You already keep saying you know nightmares aren't real, so get _that_ in your head! Okay? _Pack it in_ and _get over it!_ " With that, Stephen turned to leave the room, of course, leaving the last wet paper towel on the floor where he'd thrown it.

Nodding, Warren blinked back the burning still in his eyes and swallowed against the remaining hiccups despite how badly those last words stung and made him want to do the opposite. His stoic and quiet exterior pieced itself back together, and he continued along as if the nightmare had never happened and it wasn't real. Because nightmares weren't supposed to be real.

But on the inside, he felt his heart grow heavier and sink faster as he looked back across the lounge to see Robbin lying strung out on the couch, hearing Stephen's words echo in his head, how Bobby had purposefully gotten a fight started with him, and Juan's frustration trying to break them up.

It _wasn't_ a nightmare. It was a _warning._

And what it warned of was becoming painfully more and more real. _Already was real._

He heard Juan come back inside, but he didn't look up to acknowledge him, being lost in his realization and what it meant. It was a sickening feeling, like being trapped.

_I just want to go home..._

As if he'd practically read Warren's mind, Juan tapped Warren on the shoulder. Warren flinched and turned around, looking up at Juan expectantly, but with dread in his eyes as he expected another scolding -which he couldn't take.

"Do you need to go home?"

Maybe there was a slight undertone of annoyance to Juan's voice, but it was gentle enough that it could be seen as sourced from the fight earlier on.

Warren nodded without a word, too abashed to meet Juan's eyes and knowing he'd choke back up and get into trouble again if he spoke.

"Alright, Warren. Go home. Sort yourself out and rest. You can deal with your tracks tomorrow when you're feeling better."

As Warren left the building, he considered the ending scene he always woke up in the middle of. Here he was out in the parking lot. The only thing he felt he had to be grateful for was that he'd lost his dignity in the studio lounge, and not out in the parking lot. It was one difference from the nightmare, small enough to where he didn't feel much better about it, but experiencing that wakeup in reality was something he just couldn't stand to take. Before it could have a chance to try and make itself happen anyway, Warren was in his car and on the way home to go straight to bed.

He didn't have the nightmare again. It seemed it didn't have anything to warn against anymore. He knew what it meant and where things were going, and he was helpless to stop it now.

And barely more than a month later, when Robbin approached them all with a grim expression and a diagnosis that might as well have been a future death sentence, while his bandmates had mixed, dramatic reactions, Warren sat silently and emotionless -numb to the news, pushed to the side of the room. He felt depressed, but the raw pain wasn't there. There was a state of shock in the room, but Warren didn't feel surprised at all. He didn't even feel the drive to try and do something, because even if something could be done temporarily, he knew what was happening and that it ultimately couldn't be stopped in the end.

He'd already known it was coming.


End file.
